Ghosts of War: A Tale of the Ghost

by George Mann

  Mullins was learning, though. He had great intuition, but he hadn't yet learned to question policy and rhetoric. Until he had, he'd never be able to recognize someone like the Ghost for what he really was: the best hope the city had of ridding itself of the criminal blight under which it was now in sway.

  The Ghost was unconventional, yes; free and easy with the law, certainly. Yet Donovan knew that Gabriel's heart was in the right place. The Ghost wanted only to do what was right for the people of the city, and frustrated by the bureaucracy and corruption that plagued the police force, he had taken it upon himself to act. Donovan could respect that. In some ways, he wished he could do the same.

  It wasn't that he didn't have his doubts about the Ghost on occasion, of course. He sometimes wondered if Gabriel's desire for vengeance stemmed not only from frustration but also from something darker inside of the man, a need to lash out at the world. What was it that Gabriel was fighting? Yes, of course, he could give it a name in the shape of the crime bosses and corrupt politicians, the serial killers and pimps. Donovan couldn't help thinking, though, that it was somehow more abstract than that, something more innate. He supposed he'd never know, wasn't sure that he wanted to. Gabriel had become a good friend to him, and the Ghost was a useful tool for them both. As long as he stayed on the right side, not of the law, but of Donovan's moral code, then he would continue to cover for him and keep his neck off the chopping block at the precinct.

  Mullins, the commissioner, the other men at the precinct—none of those others would ever understand that. All they could see was a violent criminal operating outside of the law. If Donovan's association with the vigilante were ever to come to light, all they would see there, too, was his complicity.

  Well, increasingly, Donovan was beginning to think it was Commissioner Montague who was complicit. Throughout the day he'd observed the comings and goings of the man and his visitors. He'd been surprised to see Senator Isambard Banks return for an interview that lasted over an hour, although this time Donovan had not been summoned to pay lip service to the man. Nevertheless, it did much to confirm Donovan's suspicions that the commissioner was mixed up in something he shouldn't have been.

  There'd been more abductions, too, during the night. And even now Mullins was on the trail of those missing people, interviewing the family and friends, tracing their last known movements. Donovan knew it would be no use, though. If the raptors had taken them—which undoubtedly they had—the poor bastards would most likely already be dead. He'd know soon enough, anyway, if Gabriel's plan worked.

  He'd had to call Mullins off the whole Lucarotti matter that morning. The commissioner had shut it down following their conversation the previous day. Mullins had informed Donovan upon his arrival at the precinct that morning that the decree had come during the night: all investigations into the background of Paulo Lucarotti were to be considered a waste of police resources and were to be immediately dropped. They should be focusing on finding the missing British spy, or quelling the fears of the population regarding the persistent rash of abductions, the commissioner had said.

  This, to Donovan's eyes, was as good as an admission of guilt. There was now no doubt in his mind that the commissioner was involved in the whole affair. First, Montague's signature had inexplicitly featured on the man's release papers, and now this.

  The whole thing made him utterly furious. The commissioner had traded in the press on his stance regarding bribery and corruption. He pledged honesty and openness. His entire tenure as commissioner had been built on those tenets. He'd spent years weeding out the corrupt elements in the force, stifling the reach of the mob. He claimed his dream was an untouchable police force, free from bribery and the fingers of organized crime. Yet it seemed now he was as guilty as any of the men he'd put away for such crimes. Worse, though, it made him a liar and a cheat, a hypocrite. And Donovan despised hypocrisy.

  If the commissioner proved to be involved in the deaths of those twelve people and worse, if he had sold his soul to Isambard Banks, involving himself in a plot that sanctioned the creation of the raptors and the recent spate of abductions, Donovan would expose him. He would bring it to an end. The commissioner would rot in an uncomfortable cell, much smaller and less opulent than his office. He might even find himself in a box, six feet under the ground.

  For now, though, Donovan had a very different job to do. Gabriel was up there on a ledge waiting for the raptors. Donovan had to keep him alive. He had to be ready for when the raptors swooped.

  Tonight they would flush the diabolical things out of their nest. They would discover the truth about what had been going on, the reason for the abductions. And, with any luck, they would still be alive in the morning.

  Gabriel stood on the ledge atop the building and looked out over the city below. The freezing fog of the previous night had cleared somewhat, and here and there between the thick, yellow clouds were windows to the starry night beyond.

  It was cold, chilling him to the core, and his legs felt leaden with exertion. He'd had to climb his way here via the conventional route: taking the stairs. The elevators had been out of order. Perhaps now, he smiled to himself, he had a little bit more sympathy for Donovan.

  He'd decided not to equip himself with the Ghost's many accoutrements this evening. It wasn't so much that he felt he didn't need them—he would probably need them more than ever—but more that he couldn't risk being recognized by the raptors. He had no notion of whether the things had any real sense of intelligence, or whether they even could recognize him from their previous encounters, but if they did, the whole enterprise would fall to pieces.

  So, instead, he'd come dressed as a civilian, as Gabriel Cross, and he hoped that this would be enough to lure them in. He would make himself seem like easy pickings, offering himself up to the brass flock.

  Gabriel had upon him a number of concealed weapons, of course, including the long barrel of his fléchette gun, hidden in the arm of his pinstripe suit. He hefted it now, feeling comforted by its weight, by the feel of the rubber trigger bulb in his palm.

  The wind whipped Gabriel's hair about his face. He felt naked, disadvantaged, without his night vision goggles or his black trench coat and rocket boosters. It was as if, up here, awaiting these demonic, shining golems, he had come without his protective mask, and the feeling unnerved him. Perhaps Ginny had been right. The Ghost was no more than a simple disguise to hide behind.

  Tonight he was not Gabriel Cross, the playboy millionaire, the exsoldier. Nor was he simply the Ghost in plain clothes. Tonight, this was the real Gabriel, standing there, vulnerable on the rooftop. The thought terrified him. For the first time in years he was revealing himself to the world. The lines were blurring. One man was becoming the other.

  Gabriel closed his eyes and held his arms out at his sides, feeling the crosswinds here at the top of Fifth Avenue buffet him gently, rocking him back and forth on the ledge. The previous night, Donovan had asked him if he had a death wish, and he'd been unable to answer the question directly. He'd pondered on it afterward. He certainly wasn't scared of death, but nor did he welcome it. What terrified him most of all was how quickly it could come. It wasn't so much the abstract concept—the notion that one day he would simply cease to exist—but more how swiftly a life could be extinguished, how quickly all of those hard-won experiences, all of those innermost thoughts and emotions could blink off like a light. He'd seen it a hundred times, a thousand times, during the war, and he'd seen it since. He'd been responsible for dealing killing blows himself, and it was the look in the eyes of those dying men that haunted him—the sudden shock, the surprise of it all, the knowledge that everything you are or could ever be was about to cease to exist.

  It was a lonely thought, but then Gabriel's was a cruel, lonely world.

  Perhaps he deserved to die? Perhaps the universe was seeking to redress the balance, to take an eye for an eye? Perhaps that was it. That would suggest there was some greater design in the emptiness of the
universe, however, and Gabriel didn't believe in that, either.

  No, he didn't want to die. He wasn't looking for release, wasn't driven by a desire to find solace in a box, six feet beneath the earth. He wanted only to protect the city he cared for and the people who lived within its walls. He wanted to protect his way of life, to uphold the freedom of the citizens below, to weed out those elements that would see that dream crushed for their own gain.

  Gabriel sighed. He could barely feel his extremities with the cold. He'd been there for over an hour, nearer to two. Another hour longer and he'd have to give up, assume the raptors weren't coming, or that they were hunting further afield that night. He'd picked this place—on the roof of his own apartment building—because the police reports suggested a number of abductions had taken place in the area in recent days.

  A case of hypothermia wouldn't get him anywhere, though. He'd hold out for a little while longer, and then he'd have to call it a night.

  Gabriel reached inside his overcoat and withdrew a packet of cigarettes, hoping that he might be able to eke some warmth from smoking one of them. His hand was shaking as he withdrew it from the packet, put it to his lips, and pulled the self-lighting tab. He sucked hungrily at the nicotine, dragging it down into his lungs.

  He glanced down at the sounds of a passing police siren and caught sight of the sleek, black vehicle careening along the avenue, flashing past his building, bell ringing loudly to warn any pedestrians to get out of the way. Across the street, Donovan's car—an almost identical model, all black curves and sweeping lines—was parked alongside the curb. Donovan would be behind the wheel, ready, he knew. He could tell the car engine was already running by the black, oily fumes that were issuing from the exhaust funnel at the rear of the vehicle, coiling into the night sky like genies escaping from a lamp.

  Ginny was leaning out of the passenger window, staring up at him, seemingly oblivious to the cold. She was wearing a pink cloche hat studded with glass beads, and they reflected the moonlight back at him, glinting as she moved her head. He couldn't make out her expression from so high up. He didn't want to. He'd had a blazing row with her that afternoon, too, when he'd outlined his intentions. Of course, unlike Donovan she'd insisted on accompanying him, but not, as he had intended, as a navigator for Donovan. No, Ginny, perhaps fearful that she risked missing out on all the fun, had declared her intent to accompany him on the rooftop, to get herself abducted by the raptors too. She'd strenuously put across her case that he was not to be left to the mercy of the raptors alone, and that she should come with him back to their nest for added protection.

  Gabriel had laughed, and kissed her then, full and firmly on the lips. But she had slapped him away, berating him for his dismissal and for trying to dissuade her with sentiment. She was wrong, though. That hadn't been it at all. More than anything, it had been her drive, her ambition, her unfaltering sense of loyalty, her need for adventure that had caused him to sweep her up in his arms. For all that she was a drunk, for all that she had fallen out of love with life, she lived it with exuberance, inhabiting every single second of it, embracing every experience. More than anything, then, Gabriel had wanted to take her by the hand and promise her she could come with him. But, of course, he had not, because he knew that exuberance would get her killed, and he would not be responsible for that. Not again.

  So instead, now, she was hanging out of Donovan's car window, searching the skies for the oncoming raptors, keeping a dutiful eye on him.

  He'd smoked the cigarette down to the butt already, and he flicked it away, watching it tumble over the side of the building until it disappeared from view. It was then that he noticed something glinting in the distance. It was too far off to make out what it was, and at first he dismissed it as a biplane, circling the city, having launched from one of the far-off rooftops on a spike of rocket flame. As he watched, however, he saw that there was no exhaust or spike of flame. He studied it intently. No, this was something else. There were more of them, occupying the same region of the sky, shining brightly in the moonlight. A flock of them. This was it. Five raptors, and they were coming his way.

  Gabriel took a deep breath and tried to shake some blood into his fingertips. He could feel his chest tightening in anticipation, feel the muscles around his neck and shoulders bunching as he prepared himself for what was to come. He raised his arms, holding them out by his side, allowing the wind to buffet him once more. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed on the oncoming storm of brass.

  Would they even see him? Would they care? He hoped he would look to them like easy pickings. Bait.

  A quick glance down at the car told him Ginny had seen the raptors too. She was speaking frantically to Donovan, who was out of sight in the shadows, and pointing frantically up at the sky.

  A moment later, Gabriel became aware of the thrum of the raptor's propellers and the incessant chitter-chatter they made as they swarmed out of the darkness toward him, their eyes glowing red, their talons extended.

  They were flying in an arrowhead formation, swooping low over the rooftops, searching for prey. For a moment he thought they were simply going to ignore him, to flash swiftly overhead and dart away toward the relative seclusion of Central Park, but then he saw one of them—the one on the left at the rear of the formation—cock its head toward him. Its burning eyes fixed him with a menacing glare, and he knew then that there was no backing out. It was coming for him.

  Gabriel braced himself as the raptor broke formation, baying loudly. Its long wings extended, stretching their thin skein of flesh, and the rotors of its engines roared as they churned the air.

  Gabriel closed his eyes and sucked at the cold air. One way or another, he was about to discover what was really going on.

  Rutherford knew all too well where Senator Isambard Banks had taken up residence since moving to Manhattan from Brooklyn twelve months earlier: the Plaza Hotel on 59th Street, perhaps the most resplendent, and decadent, of all New York hotels.

  Rutherford had even visited the senator's apartment on occasion in his guise as Jerry Robertson, being wined and dined and taken into the senator's rather overbearing confidence. He'd been forced to sit for hours listening to the man pontificate on his radical policies, his opinions of the British, his dream that one day the American people could have an empire just as extensive and powerful as that of Queen Alberta. He couldn't see how ridiculous it made him sound, how much of an egomaniac he had become. America already had an empire as extensive as the British: the United States. Rutherford loved the country almost as much as his own, and it saddened him to hear such radical views expressed by someone who had the potential to wield such power.

  Rutherford, of course, had long ago learned how to play the political game, and had fed the man's ego, expressing confluent views, testing the water with his own falsified opinions, egging the man on until, months later, he'd been invited back to the apartment on an almost weekly basis to discuss the senator's plans for igniting the war.

  Now, Rutherford could see the silhouette of the senator moving about in the apartment through the gossamer curtains that flapped at the open window. It was icy cold outside, but the senator was not a slim man, and given the amount of pacing back and forth he was doing, Rutherford imagined he'd opened the window in order to cool down.

  The apartment itself was a sumptuous affair, almost as grotesque to Rutherford's tastes as the senator himself. He supposed it was a reflection of the senator's personality that he needed to be surrounded by gilded things, most of which, Rutherford had realized upon closer inspection, were in fact cheap decorative copies, glamorized and disguised as priceless objets d'art. That, in itself, told Rutherford much about the senator's personality and his outlook on life: he was more concerned with outward appearances than he was with substance and depth. His policies, Rutherford knew, were only as well-thought-out and robust as his collection of art, there only to empower him and his cronies, to make him feel important, to offer him the illusion of grandeur
. It was this that he craved above all else: fame, and a place in the history books. He saw the means to achieve this goal in his plans to lead the country to glory through a war with the British. It was his intention to be the man remembered for bringing a new golden age to the glorious empire of America.

  Rutherford shivered. His fingers were growing numb now with the cold, clutching the steering wheel of the stolen car. He'd taken it earlier from a side street, cracking the lock and hotwiring the engine. He'd been reluctant to steal, of course, but he'd needed transport, especially if he was going to successfully tail the senator. His breath was fogging the windows, and he rubbed at the glass ineffectually with his sleeve and then leaned over and rolled down the passenger window, allowing the frigid air to swirl in. He'd been there for hours, and he was freezing cold, but it wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go.

  Rutherford could barely believe that all those months of undercover work, of living as someone else in the company of all those rich and powerful statesmen, had come to this. It wasn't that he feared acting against those people, or even putting his own life at risk for the greater good of his country, but more that this was not at all how he had planned for the endgame to play out.

  All those months spent winning Banks's confidence, getting the man to trust him, becoming his confidant, and working his way into the inner circle, had allowed him to build a picture of what was going on, an understanding of what this cabal of men were planning.

  They were secretly building a superweapon that they planned to unleash on London. He didn't know exactly what it was, or where it was being built—other than the fact the engineer responsible had designed it to be housed inside a huge transatlantic airship—but he knew from the conversations he'd overheard that it was incredibly dangerous, without parallel in modern warfare. They were worried about being able to control it once it was fully activated.